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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775903">Many Happy Returns</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian'>TheBraillebarian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Florida [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Grief/Mourning, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:55:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place post Galaktikon II. What do you get the man who has everything?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Florida [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Many Happy Returns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsomniacCoffee">InsomniacCoffee</a>! Prompt: Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nine months to the day.</p><p>Of course Charles pays his respects at the world monument. It’s a garish thing, five gaudy statues towering over a blasted landscape, fountains of red gurgling at its center. The black plinth recounting their deeds in several languages and forms of musical notation. Skulls, spikes, hollows to let the wind howl through it all. The boys would have loved it.</p><p>Charles hates the place and hurries away from the mourning throngs as quickly as the ceremony will allow.</p><p>Away from the monument the air is fresh, the landscape verdant. Charles’ new shoes brush through the grass leaving the smell of screams in his wake. Magnus is waiting in the car, face drawn and looking as soul weary as Charles feels.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” he says flatly as Charles sits beside him. “How’d it go?”</p><p>“As expected.”</p><p>They don’t speak again in the hours it  takes to return to Mordhaus. Magnus is quick to unfold his travelling chair and vanish into the empty depths. Ignoring the itch of obligations as yet unmet in the back of his skull, Charles exits the car and walks with purpose toward his own destination. It’s his birthday, he can allow himself an indulgence.</p><p>The private memorial is a much more subdued affair. Five stones in the shade of a tree tucked away in a small garden. No names or ornate statues, only an arrangement of nature each man would have found pleasing. There is nothing buried here, of course, as there is nothing of them buried anywhere. They are gone, a shining new world left in their wake, but nothing save memories is left of them.</p><p>A heavy sigh leaves Charles and he presses a hand to the locket under his shirt. Pickles had worn it in the months when they had all assumed Charles to be dead. The last time he’d seen the fire haired man, a sweating hand had pressed the locket into Charles’ palm, a kiss to his lips, and that was it. He’d felt, mere hours later, the lurch of the cosmos shifting, a weight he’d always carried suddenly lifting from his shoulders, and a terrible gap where five people, and one in particular, used to be.</p><p>Now Charles stands in the  circle of stones and traces the locket’s shape under his shirt. On one side is a small photo of the band. On the other, just Pickles. He is not prone to tears but the sigh through his nose and the bow of his shoulders speaks enough.</p><p>He is turning to leave when a familiar gait shuffles down the garden path behind him.</p><p>“Hey, chief!”</p><p>The voice punches through him like a bullet and Charles jerks.</p><p>“Been lookin’ all over fer yah!”</p><p>A hand falls on his shoulder, impossibly warm and solid. He grasps it desperately and feels hot skin, sweat. His heart is racing.</p><p>“So remember that time I got super high an’ said I’d get yah the moon fer yer birthday? Well it ain’t the moon but I got a piece of it!”</p><p>Charles spins and crashes his mouth into Pickles’. If he’s dying he wants to feel this one more time. The drummer, the god, whatever this is drops the gray stone in his hand and tangles his fingers in short brown hair. He tastes the same, like beer and stale weed and sweat. Shaking fingers are digging into greasy red dreadlocks and he doesn’t care about the small noise of discomfort the man makes. After a few moments that last an eternity, Pickles draws back enough to whisper:</p><p>“Missed you too.”</p><p>“Where have you been?” Charles’ voice is choked.</p><p>A thumb wipes tears off his cheek. “Tampa.”</p><p>“…what?”</p><p>“It’s a crazy story, dood,” he presses a gentler kiss to Charles’ trembling mouth. “Tell yah later. Happy birthday.”</p>
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